The Sole of a Woman – Box A

- A Shoe Invite-ory

There’s No Place Like Home

I’m a cheap date…the cheapest! The best date I ever had, was a £5 ferry ride (across the River Mersey) with a handsome young drummer. He suggested it, but I paid for the tickets. It was my first and thus far, last time on the ferry. 

It was one of those beautiful lemonade-lucid, late spring afternoons. The city looked, to me at least, as if it were in high definition and resonated, as if in surround sound. We were halfway across the river, ‘the drummer’ was on the phone (truth be told, he wasn’t that into me). There was a strong wind blowing in off the Irish Sea, it made my hair whip against the sides of my face and stick in the corners of my mouth. I leant over the boat’s handrail to feel the muddy spray of the estuary on my closed eyes…then, looked straight up at Liverpool's gleaming skyline. – The Three Graces, Radio City Tower, the apartment blocks and indignant cathedrals appeared in such high resolution, it was as if God himself had come down overnight and polished everything especially for me. I stood on my tip-toes, hands firmly clasped onto the ferry’s handrail and shouted to the city as I leaned forward: ‘I think I love you’– the sound of the words travelling no further than the thought.

The next time I was due to see ‘the drummer,’ he stood me up. But, as I walked home (via the 24hr booze-shop to pick up some chocolate and a couple of packets of Scampi Fries) the city’s buildings seemed to watch over me, almost as if they were saying – I love you too, my dear.

I can’t drive – the closest I’ve ever got to buying a car, was the Aston Martin that came with the Scalextrics I bought myself last Christmas. I prefer vintage/thrift shop clothes. I don’t care much for jewellery; it brings me out in hives. And expensive food always tastes like a scam to me. – I’m the kind of person, who’ll order potato dauphinoise in a fancy restaurant while thinking: it better be free-range dolphin in the potato for the price they’re fucking charging.

However, when it comes to shoes…well, that’s a horse of a different colour.

When I’ve got money I travel, when I don’t have money I buy shoes; to ensure I travel again. To me, shoes have nothing to do with fashion or utility; they are the promise of an adventure; the route to an undiscovered love; the accompaniment to a song; an old dance below a new skyline.

It was two summers ago, on New York’s West 4^th Street. The tiny studio I was living in (located above a Tai restaurant and opposite a 24hr diner) didn’t have any outdoor space for my dog. So, every morning (usually at about 11ish) I’d – without washing, brushing my teeth or even peeing – rollover, put on my red Marc Jacob shoes, then navigate 4 flights of stairs (the building was a walk-up) to the street below; usually dressed in nothing more than the vest and cut-off shorts I’d slept in. I’d walk one block east-bound to Washington Square Park (with my little dog in tow) then, I’d return to the petit studio, kick off the red shoes and go back to sleep.

You’d think that buying a pair of shoes that cost more money than my childhood guardians could earn in a month, would offend my lower-class sensibilities. – It doesn’t, wearing great shoes makes me feel like I’m floating…floating over the rainbow – or at the very least, floating past the window rainbows of West Village gay bars.

Sometimes (especially when it’s raining), I slip-on my red $300 Marc Jacob shoes and a £10 thrift shop dress, and play Nina Simone songs. I swirl, sway and smooch around my penthouse from mirror-to-mirror as Nina sings, Just In Time. The ruby shoes momentarily transporting me between New York’s Greenwich Village in summer, and the deck of a Liverpool ferry on a lemonade-lucid, late spring day. – Minutes of sheer unabashed pleasure; alone with my meandering imagination, an emerald breeze, a little dog, rain, and bows.

Always, Just In Time…

	Nina Simone - Just in Time .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

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